Atlas
by KSCrusaders
Summary: A series of four vignettes detailing the years between the Arishok's fall and the revolution's rise. Hope, despair, love, and hate collide, and the Champion of Kirkwall bears her burdens through it all. Lady Hawke/Anders, Act 2/3 spoilers. COMPLETE.
1. 9:34 Dragon

A/N: This four-part story will span 9:34 Dragon, when the Arishok fell, to 9:37 Dragon just before the endgame. Obvious spoilers are obvious. Many thanks to BioWare, and to the crazy peeps on the Anders thread. ILU ALL.

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><p><strong>Atlas<strong>

_By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

_9:34 Dragon  
><em>  
>It was a strange city, Natale Hawke mused as she returned to her Hightown estate, in which she could attend a state funeral in the morning, a fancy party celebrating the Arishok's downfall in the evening, and spend the day in between diverting the illegal lyrium flow through Darktown. Just the idea of the nobles celebrating their lives with wine and revelry instead of, say, electing a new Viscount made her uneasy.<p>

But she wasn't Anders. She could be patient. She could be subtle. She could smile and dance and rub shoulders with the wealthy and powerful, help turn them slowly to her side.

She still had the luxury of time, for now.

Instinctively, she felt for the dagger strapped to her leg. At least the damned dress was Antivan silk and didn't restrict her breathing the way some of the Orlesian designs did. She missed the weight of her armor, the gentle hum of her staff at her back. This red silken thing might be pretty, but she didn't fancy throwing around lightning in it.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone in the street before her. Deliberate. Natale watched Aveline round the corner. Her friend didn't seem at all surprised to find her out late in the evening.

"Come to join me on patrol?" she said with a smile. Two more guards, Donnic and Brennan, stepped out after Aveline.

Natale chuckled quietly. "I think I'm a bit tipsy for that," she said, though she'd only had a glass or two of wine at the party.

Aveline turned to Donnic and Brennan. "Go on ahead," she said. "I'll get Hawke home, then catch up to you."

Part of Natale still chafed at being treated like the girl who Aveline met outside Lothering, on the run for her life from the Blight. But for the most part, she was glad for the company. The guard captain walked her back to her estate in a companionable silence, both of them enjoying the cool spring air.

"No word on electing a new viscount?" asked Aveline after a few minutes, looking around for anyone who might be watching or listening. Natale shook her head.

"Maker's mercy, it's been months!" said Aveline indignantly. "What are they waiting for?"

"The nobles aren't waiting for anything," said Natale in a low, hard voice. "You and I both know perfectly well who's been stalling the process."

A frission of tension ran between them. Aveline sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It can't last forever," she said.

"I guess I'll call that optimism," said Natale.

"It's the _law_, Hawke."

"Then I guess we'll hope the law prevails. For all our sakes."

Aveline fell silent. Natale didn't need to mention the hesitation among the nobles or the sudden tension between the templars and the guards. The earlier curfews, the rumors of families of mages disappearing in the night. They both already knew, and were long past the point of pretending.

They reached the front door of the estate. There was no need for the Champion and the captain of the guard to go in through the back.

"Sure I can't get you anything before you go?" asked Natale as she opened the door.

"If your mabari's still up, I'd love to take him out. It's fun watching Brennan squirm." Natale chuckled and looked at Calenhad, who was fast asleep in front of the fire.

"You're an evil woman," she said with a grin. "And no, he's being lazy tonight."

"Then take care, Hawke," said Aveline. Then she paused, turned back to look at the young woman in her silken red dress, framed in the doorway with firelight. But Natale just waved and closed the door. She knew Aveline wanted to help. But she couldn't. Natale was already too deep in for the captain of the guard to get herself involved.

The scrawled note from Athenril on her desk proved that. She glanced it over quickly before slipping it into her shoulder bag; four crates of lyrium taken from the smugglers, plus Athenril's estimate of their relative black market value, and her information about ship captains willing to smuggle apostates out of Kirkwall. She'd have to examine it more closely and ask Varric for a second opinion tomorrow. She still had some of her old contacts, and she knew the underworld, but it had been years since she got directly involved herself.

Strange that the very life that shielded her from the templars for a year would now benefit other mages.

She heard the sound of tearing paper from the bedroom upstairs. A quick detour into the kitchen for some drinks and a few rolls from dinner, and she headed up to her bedroom.

With a slight sigh, she stepped over the torn and scattered sheafs of Anders' manifesto and sat down on the bed beside him, balancing the tray on her lap. He'd been fine when she left earlier in the evening. Or at least, relatively fine given all that had happened recently. She was hoping today would stay a good day.

"Hey," she said quietly, pushing a mug of warm milk into his unresisting hands. "Talk to me."

He looked from the milk back up to her, his hair unkempt from hands running through it over and over in frustration during the last few hours. "You look lovely," he murmured. Natale rewarded him with a small smile; she placed the tray on the table beside the bed and bent to start cleaning up the fallen pages.

"Don't," said Anders. "I'll take care of it."

"What you'll do is eat something, then go to sleep," she replied calmly. She stood and waited, watching as he slowly sipped at the milk. He didn't say anything until she'd finished cleaning up and started carefully removing her jewelry and pulling the pins from her elaborately done hair.

There was a clink of plates as Anders put down his mug. His words came out in hardly a whisper.

"Are you...ashamed of me?"

It took her a few seconds to realize what he'd said. She turned around, setting her necklace down on her dresser. "Of course not!" she said sharply. "Why in Andraste's name would you think that?"

Anders didn't answer. He didn't have to. She could see them both reflected in the mirror; the Champion of Kirkwall in her lovely silken evening gown, and the revolutionary apostate with nothing the world considered of value. He got like this sometimes on his bad days, claiming he wasn't worthy of her affection, that she took too many risks on his behalf. But never had he asked whether _she_ felt that way.

Natale got to her feet and closed the distance between them, touching his face. He reluctantly met her keen gaze, and she felt her heart seize. He wore the same look as he had after he almost killed Ella, and only allowed her to comfort him. He was so open with her, so painfully vulnerable when he got like this.

"Sit down," she said, gently leading him to the bed. She scooted closer to him and took both of his hands in hers, willing him to feel her warmth and strength.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For all that she and Anders had shared in the last few months, all that she loved him, she still hadn't told him why. Why she stood at his side when she could have anyone she wished in Kirkwall, why he meant more to her than everything she'd achieved. It wasn't necessary...until now.

"Did I ever tell you," she asked, her eyes still closed, "about the first time I killed a templar?"

She heard him start in surprise beside her. "No," he said slowly, clearly wondering what her strange question had to do with anything.

Natale opened her eyes. She could still remember everything from that day in sharp detail; the bitterness of fallen leaves, feel the autumn wind in her hair, the leaden fear that had paralyzed her limbs. She shuddered a little and attempted to quell it, but Anders noticed. He always noticed.

"It was the fall after Father died," she said in a rush before she lost her nerve. "Mother was still grieving, and Carver was keeping her company. I was...trying to cheer Bethany up, and I took her to a traveling acting troupe that set up camp on the road into Lothering."

It still hurt a little, remembering when they'd all lived under one roof. No matter what anyone said, it didn't change the facts. Her mother and sister were gone, her brother tainted by the Blight. And all of their lives were her responsibility. She felt Anders squeeze her hand and smiled a bit. At least she hadn't failed her friends.

"I don't even remember what the performance was about," she admitted. "I was too busy keeping an eye on Bethany, making sure we were safe. But my little sister's laughter...I remember that." Bethany had the same laugh as Father: a full-throated chuckle that made her eyes gleam with mischief.

"Normally, we would've left with the other villagers after the performance," she said. "But...it had been so long since I saw my sister so happy. She wanted to stay, talk to the actors. And Maker help me, I let her."

Natale paused and looked up at Anders, grey eyes shining in the firelight. "She was only fifteen."

He heard the unspoken plea and put an arm around her shoulders. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she continued with her story, her stomach turning over. What would he think of her when she told him what happened next?

"It was nearly dark by the time the troupe started packing up," she continued. "Bethany got a kiss on the cheek from one of the actors," she added with a fond smile, trying to stall her tale.

"And I'll bet he got a glare from you," said Anders.

"What do you mean?" said Natale innocently. They both had a quiet laugh, but she quickly sobered up.

"I was anxious to get us home. Usually Bethany and I cut across the farms at night. Fewer templar patrols, even though it takes longer. But this time, we took the road. And that's when I saw him."

Faint moonlight glistening off steel. The appraising turn of his head, the barely visible eyes behind those foreboding helms. The slight pulse of fear she always felt when she saw an unfamiliar templar.

"Bethany and I knew all the templars in Lothering by name and sight," she said. "He was completely unknown to us. He stopped us, asked us what we were doing...and where we lived." Anders tensed instinctively, his hands squeezing hers.

"I still to this day don't know what tipped him off. Maybe I seemed too nervous. Maybe he was just paranoid. Or maybe he was some despicable son of a bitch like Alrik who deserved to die," she said in a low, hard voice. "But it doesn't matter. Bethany and I left the road; we figured he wouldn't follow us if we looked like we were heading to another farm. But he did. He didn't even try to hide it-just followed us at about fifty paces, like a dog tracking prey."

"We sped up. So did he. I took Bethany's hand, tried to keep her calm. But I could feel her shaking with fright, and I knew the templar could probably see it. Neither of us dared look back, but I could hear him gaining on us. Slowly, but inexorably."

"A patch of wood separated some of the homes in Lothering. The farmers sometimes placed animal traps along the treeline to protect their crops and livestock. I had a sudden idea...and I had to make a choice."

"Better one templar than you and your sister," said Anders, unable to control himself. She could hear Justice's fervor in his voice, his anger.

"It's easier said than done when you're two frightened girls who have never faced down a templar in your lives," she replied, more sharply than she intended. "How often did you fight the templars who recaptured you?"

Anders looked down at his hands. He knew the answer, and so did she. No mage could hope to go toe-to-toe with a templar. It was what the Chantry taught him to control him, what her father taught her to protect her. If it came to combat, it was usually too late.

"Bethany and I made for the treeline. I'm not the most...devout sort, but I remember praying for the traps to be unsprung, searching for a glint of metal. That blighted templar quickened his pace, closing in on us-he was barely twenty paces behind. I almost broke Bethany's fingers trying to keep her from running. And then I saw it."

"Old Barlin had brought out the wolf traps-I knew how to spot them. Carver helped him set them. We weaved our way through the traps, and the instant I let go of Bethany's hand, she broke into a sprint." Natale no longer felt the warmth of the fire or the pressure of Anders' touch. She was back there in those woods, running for her life and hoping against hope she hadn't doomed them both.

"I'm not exactly sure what happened next," she continued, her voice ringing with determination. "There was this...grinding snap, then a scream. And then a blinding pain in my hand. I remember turning, seeing the templar's knife point-first in the ground, covered in blood. My blood."

Anders drew a sharp breath. The way she'd said it, like it meant more than just an injury from a templar...

"Then...this was when you first used blood magic." It wasn't a question. Natale didn't answer. She could hardly hear him, lost in her past.

"I stopped feeling the pain. All I felt was this..._surge_, this unexpected power flooding through me. I could _feel_ the templar's life as he lay on the ground, his leg ensnared in the trap. I could sense the pain pouring through him. And I must have done something, because the next thing I remember is wrapping my injured hand around his mangled leg and squeezing with all my might."

"I don't know if he screamed. I guess he didn't, and neither did I, or all the farmers nearby would've come running. But when it was over, Bethany stood over us both, white with shock. The templar lay limp and white as a sheet, all the life drained from his body. And I had this."

She pulled her hand from his grasp and turned it palm up; the jagged red scar gleamed, livid against her pale skin. He'd once asked her what it was from. She'd never told him the full story.

Natale was shaking slightly now, and neither Anders nor the heavy blanket he threw around her bare shoulders helped. "It sounds romantic, doesn't it? Killing your first templar," she said with a bitter laugh. "It's not like that at all."

"No," replied Anders instantly, remembering Rolan...and all the others. "No, it isn't."

"I turned around and threw up. Not on the templar, I suppose. Insult to injury and all that," she said with a weak laugh. "I think Bethany helped me up when I was done. She was shaking too, even worse than I was. Because it didn't matter that he was dead, and that we were safe. There were more templars, always more. In Lothering, on the roads, in the Circle tower. And when I'd finally recovered my wits enough not to cry, I realized we were in even more danger than before."

"It was Bethany, of all the Maker's children, who came up with the idea that saved us. We added cut marks from his knife to his leg, then put the knife in his hand and a cloth between his teeth. Covered up our tracks. When we were done, it looked like he'd stumbled into the trap and bled to death trying to free himself."

"Neither of us said anything when we returned home. Carver was brooding as usual-I don't think he even noticed anything amiss. And Bethany and I never said a word to either him or Mother. It was our secret. I haven't told another soul...except for you."

It seemed like shutters had closed behind her eyes. She pulled herself from Anders' arms and started to pace restlessly, as she always did when she wasn't sure what to do or say next.

"And every time after that day, when I saw a templar, I felt that fear, like a sickness in my stomach. That was the first time a templar tried to kill me. The first time one really threatened my little sister. And I had to resort to blood magic to keep it from happening. I wasn't as strong as Father, or as experienced. And it wasn't about a cause or a message. He was a man like any other except for his uniform, and I planned his death to save my skin. Knowing that, living with that..."

She drew a shuddering breath. "That fear ebbed as time passed, but it never went away. Not until I met you."

She stopped pacing. Anders opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand, her grey eyes intent on his face. She took him in as a whole; his warm tired eyes, his slight slouch when he sat, the unassuming strength in those slightly calloused hands.

"It was like being struck by lightning, being with you," she said quietly. "You fought the templars, and I couldn't understand how or why. But you showed me how to live without fear. You lit a fire in me."

Natale sat back down and cupped Anders' face in her hands, running her fingers along his unshaven cheek. She tipped his face up to meet hers and placed a kiss on his forehead. Then she found Anders burying his face in her shoulder, felt the dampness on his cheeks.

"I've doomed you," he whispered between shallow, shuddering breaths. "I've brought you to a cause that I can't uphold anymore." He gestured to the scattered pages of the manifesto that she'd neatly piled on the bed beside them. "I can't go on like this, not after-" He closed his eyes and turned pale. Even now, months after his attack on Ella, he still sometimes woke her with nightmares.

"Anders. Anders, love. Look at me." He did so slowly, his eyes glassy.

"Let me help," she said urgently. "I know Meredith's been cracking down. I know your friends in the mage underground need help. I can see it in your face every time you get like this."

"You're the Champion!" he protested.

"Yes, you dolt, I'm the Champion. And I haven't been using my influence nearly as much as I should," she said. When Anders continued to look dubious, she retrieved her shoulder bag from its hook on the back of the bedroom door, pulled out Athenril's letter, and pushed it into his hands.

She stood in silence, gazing into the fire, as Anders read the letter. He inhaled sharply when he got to the bottom.

"Maker's mercy," he breathed. He got to his feet and stormed over to where she stood, waving the letter in her face. "Are you mad? Lyrium smuggling?"

Natale swallowed a smile. Angry and worried was an improvement over self-loathing. "I promised Athenril it would be profitable."

"You're really going to do this," said Anders slowly. "You're serious." She couldn't tell if he sounded hopeful or aghast. Probably a little bit of both. He read over Athenril's letter again, letting every word sink in. She'd thought this over. It was detailed, planned, something she'd been working on for months now.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself," she said gently. "It's not just about us anymore." The ferocity and pride that had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame blazed brightly in her eyes. "Someone has to oppose Meredith-not openly, but it has to happen. And I am the only person in Kirkwall with the influence and resources to do it."

Slowly, very slowly, a worried smile spread across Anders' face. "You know what you're getting into, right?" he said, searching her face for any sign of hesitation or fear. "In just the last couple of months, Meredith's decimated large parts of the underground."

"And she'll continue to do so, I know. But the man I love will not just lie down and let her take what she will. And neither will I."

Hope. He'd given her hope, years ago, and now, she was returning the favor. Anders pulled her toward him in a fierce, desperate kiss. The hunger, the sheer need in his touch made her tremble. His fingers seized at the fragile ties on the back of her dress, and she chuckled slightly when he growled with frustration.

"How attached are you to this thing?" he gasped, his voice low and rough. She was about to respond when he pushed her roughly against the cool stone wall next to the fireplace, pinning her with his hips. He began nipping at her neck, her exposed shoulders, drinking in the faint smell of her perfume.

"Anders-" she whispered, arching against him. He silenced her with another burning kiss, his hands running along her silken dress with abandon. He didn't pull back until he had to gasp for breath. Then suddenly, his eyes turned gentle. They still burned with desire, but he relaxed the pressure on her hips and very lightly traced his hand down the marks his kisses had left on her pale skin.

He reached behind her and found the ties on her dress again. Slowly, gently, he undid them one by one, his lips barely brushing over her cheeks and eyes.

"I love you," he whispered over and over again. He breathed it into her skin, her hair, her lips. She started trying to remove his robes, but he gathered up her hands in his, and gently but firmly pinned them above her head against the wall. Natale let out a soft moan when his fingers reached the small of her back, sending shivers up her spine.

She could turn the tables if she wanted, but there was nowhere she'd rather be. Her dress slipped down her shoulders to her elbows when Anders undid the last of the bindings. One hand still held hers in place, and he ran the other across her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin, smooth silk.

In one smooth movement, Anders let go of her wrists and dropped to his knees; the dress fell, pooling in red around her feet. His breath alternated between hot and cold against her smallclothes.

"Oh, Maker," she gasped, resting her head back against the stone. Her fingers twined in his hair, urging him on. His tongue just barely touched her thigh, and sparks began to dance up and down her body, sending little waves of ice and fire along her exposed skin. Inch by torturous inch, he removed the last of her clothing, his lips skimming the surface of her skin.

"Anders-" she said, danger starting to creep into her voice. "Don't start what you don't intend to-"

He silenced her instantly, pressing his tongue against her. She gasped and writhed, but his hands came up, holding her hips in place against the wall. He could feel her hands beginning to clutch at his hair, smell the tang of ozone in the air when her powers began to wax and wane. But he took his time; he always took his time with her.

"My name," he whispered raggedly, pulling back from her to look up at her glazed eyes and flushed cheeks. "Say it."

"Anders." He smiled a little and slid two fingers into her.

"Again."

"Anders, _please_-"

It didn't take long before he heard her gasp, felt her clenching around him, but he was relentless. He continued to touch her, tease her, until her knees gave out and she slumped against the wall. Anders leaned forward and caught her, lying her down on the thick rug in front of the low embers of the fire.

She beamed up at him like a contented cat; he half-expected her to purr as she stretched before the fire. Anders nudged her knees apart and pulled her hands up, placing them on the clasps of his clothing.

"Clothes off. Now." Natale couldn't help a smirk. He only talked in those short, clipped phrases when he was nearly blind with desire for her. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and a wave of force washed over him, loosening the straps on his robes and boots. Practiced hands practically tore him out of his clothes, pulled him down over her, surprisingly strong hands kneading his back.

He pushed into her with one hard thrust, and then, nothing else mattered. The Circle, the templars...all that evaporated. All that mattered was the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin against hers, his ragged and desperate gasps in her ear. He raised himself on his arms and held her eyes, gasping her name. She could feel him starting to tremble and kissed the back of his neck.

"I love you," she whispered. Anders shuddered and let out a low moan before collapsing on top of her in front of the fire, his long limbs entwined with hers. He nuzzled her neck, content for the moment to just enjoy the feeling of her body under his, her hands rubbing his back.

Eventually, he propped himself up on his elbows, running one hand from her neck to her stomach. "I wish..." he began wistfully. "I wish I could give you a normal life. Freedom. Security. Children. All those things you deserve."

Natale bit back the sarcastic retort that popped into her head. Instead, she kissed him on the nose and smiled.

"I don't think I was ever going to have a normal life," she said. "And if it's to be an abnormal one, I'd rather it be with you."

She had no regrets, and no illusions. But that night as she drifted off to sleep in Anders' arms in front of the fire, she dreamed of fields of gold. Of a world with no templars and no fear.

Of Anders, with the wind in his hair and laughter in his face. And a beautiful little girl with golden curls on his knee, watching her father cast magic with wide, enchanted eyes.


	2. 9:35 Dragon

A/N: Part 2 of 4. I adjusted two quests: The Lost Swords, which I always felt had interesting post-conflict potential but only amounted to a fetch quest in the game, and the slaying of the High Dragon. It makes no sense story-wise for the Champion of Kirkwall to just get random bits off her armor off of dragons and blood mages, so here's how I think she got her armor. Also, Isabela is absent because her codex entry has her out of Kirkwall for a while between Act 2 and 3, even if she came back to return the relic. Many thanks to the Anders thread as usual for their crazy, and to BioWare for their fantastic game.

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><p><strong>Atlas<strong>

_By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

_9:35 Dragon_

Natale always liked birthdays. When she, Carver, and Bethany had been children, her father would break his usual rules about magic being serious on birthdays, and treat them to a spectacular display of fire and lightning. Mother would make their favorite foods: chocolate-covered sweet rolls for Bethany, lamb and carrot stew for Carver, and sour cherry turnovers for Natale. For a day, it didn't matter that three of them were apostates. They were just family.

Her favorite one was her twelfth, when Father gave her a staff. She could still remember the feel of the smooth dark wood under her slightly too-small palms, the thrill of being able to cast magic on her own. Bethany watching her with wide, shining eyes, Carver stealing it for a bit to poke at the neighbor's little girl in a fit of mischief.

This birthday was all business so far. But considering how adamant Bodahn, Aveline, and even little Orana had been about shooing her out of her own house, she was sure she'd get a reprieve later.

She made her way alone down to the Wounded Coast, arriving just before noon. If she was lucky, whatever the templars were kibitzing about would have nothing to do with the mages, and she could just be there as a token presence. If she was unlucky...well...best not to think about that.

It wasn't difficult following where the templars had gone. Metal boots left obvious indentations in the wet sand. Natale tread the familiar path along the jagged rocks and scraggly bushes, staff in hand.

"Champion!"

The templar approached her, the noon sun blinding on his chestplate. Natale quickly quashed the slow-burning anger that flared up inside her whenever she saw templars these days. She could not openly antagonize them, could not give Meredith the excuse she was looking for. "Knight-Captain," she said with a cold nod.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," said Cullen. He drew his sword and lead her to the mouth of one of the myriad oceanside caves along the Wounded Coast. Eight more templars and a handful of Aveline's guards stood by the entrance. "And I'm sorry for involving you. I understand you're still recovering from dealing with that High Dragon in the Bone Pits."

"Does everyone know that?" said Natale dryly, unconsciously rubbing her shoulder. The tear marks from the dragon's teeth had still yet to fade, despite all of Anders' skill.

"You're the Champion of Kirkwall," he said mildly. "Word spreads, though I'm sure some of it has been...embellished."

Natale forced a smile. "I'm sure," she said. "Now tell me what all this is about." Her eyes fell on one of Aveline's guards, but Ser Karras stepped forward from the ranks of the templars.

The two of them eyed one another with open hostility for a few moments, a nasty smile twisting Karras's face. He'd hated her since she, Varric, Anders, and Isabela made a fool of him all those years ago. "Well. We have some oxmen holed up inside the cave. Maker knows why you're here, but-"

"I thought it would be better if you engaged them, Champion," said Cullen, hastily cutting in. He waved at Karras to stand down; Karras continued to glare daggers at Natale, but she simply turned away, training her attention on Cullen. "You did make an impression on them. Perhaps this can end without blood."

Natale considered it for a moment. "Have they attacked you?"

"No. Sergeant Harley here tipped us off late last night."

"We spotted the qunari while on routine patrol," said Harley, speaking up for the first time. She looked at Natale with open awe. "Didn't follow them, though. There were at least a dozen of the bastards."

"Smart move. And you're sure they're qunari? Not Tal-Vashoth?" As far as Natale was aware, the true qunari had left Kirkwall peacefully after she defeated the Arishok. Well...as peacefully as they could with a whole city out for their blood, at any rate.

"What's the damned difference?" said Karras.

"To them? The world." That shut the templar up, and she paced slowly before the mouth of the cave, thinking. There was a very slight possibility that this was a trap set up by the templars, but even they weren't that daft. She was Champion, and still beloved by the people of Kirkwall so soon after rescuing them from the Arishok. If Meredith wanted her out of the way without sparking a city-wide riot, she'd have to do better than some half-brained qunari rubbish.

Blue flames sprang to life in her hands, and she took a few cautious steps into the cave. The sand and gravel had definitely been disturbed, and by qunari-sized feet...quite a few of them. She did some quick mental math, and decided it would be foolish to go in alone, especially when she wasn't at her best.

"All right," she said. "Sergeant Harley? Knight-Captain? Come with me. The rest of you, clear out."

Cullen's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Natale swiftly cut him off. "Either they're qunari, and having the guard and templars camping at the cave entrance will only antagonize them, or they're Tal-Vashoth and don't give a damn who's rallied against them anyway."

"And what if there are more oxmen than the guard managed to spot?" sneered Karras. "You're going to throw the Knight-Captain into their midst?"

"Your Knight-Captain will be perfectly safe with me," she said, a slow and poisonous smile spreading across her face. "How many of them do you think I killed to get to the Arishok?" She couldn't help the grim satisfaction at the look of fear on Karras's face, but fought the urge to press her luck.

Cullen looked dubious, but he turned to the rest of the templars nonetheless. "Go back to the outpost between the coast and the city proper," he ordered. "I'll meet you all there."

Natale waited patiently while the templars and guards, with varying amounts of grumbling and glaring at her, cleared out. She visibly relaxed once it was down to the three of them, and gestured for Cullen and Harley to follow her into the cave. She'd been in this one before, back when slavers used it to keep Feynriel and the other apostates. Now it appeared mostly empty, save for the disturbed sand under their feet.

She held out her staff like a torch, lightning crackling around the end. "Won't that attract their attention?" whispered Harley.

"Plate mail is hardly subtle," said Natale dryly, eyeing her guardsman's chain and Cullen's armor. "Trust me. If they're qunari, we'll want to give them warning."

"And if they're not?"

"Then I kill them."

There were no weapons lying around haphazardly, and when they rounded a corner and came across a large stash of rations, all of the boxes were neatly stacked. Natale relaxed a bit-that was a good sign. Tal-Vashoth were usually more chaotic in their lifestyle, almost deliberately so, as though messiness would wash away the Qun's hold on them. She noticed with amusement that it triggered the opposite reaction in her companions.

"Put your weapons away," she murmured when they hit a fork in the cavern. The foot traffic here was heavier and followed a clearer pattern toward the path on the right. Cullen and Harley exchanged deeply dubious looks, but followed her lead when she placed her staff back into its holster. There was no need for it anyway-torchlight flickered along the cave's rough walls to their right, and she could hear sounds of movement in the distance.

Walking the fine line between stymieing the templars and openly opposing them was all muddled and grey. This was easy, clear, something she could handle. She missed that about dealing with the qunari. So few things were certain these days.

They rounded another corner, and found themselves face-to-face with four towering qunari, all with blades and spears pointed at her throat. She heard Cullen instinctively draw his sword, and they instantly rounded on him.

Part of her dearly wanted to make the templar squirm, but instead, she lifted her hands in a gesture of peace. One of the qunari carried the weapons of a scout-an Ashaad, if she remembered correctly.

"_Shanedan, Ashaad_," she said quietly. "My apologies for my companions' behavior. I do not come here with the intent to do harm."

Recognition dawned on his face when he met her cool grey eyes. He barked something to the other qunari, who slowly lowered their weapons.

"_Shanedan, basalit-an_," he replied. He turned to Cullen and Harley. "Your weapons will be bound to their scabbards, _bas. _There is no need for you to do the same, Hawke. Your honor is known to us."

Natale inclined her head slightly. "Do as he asks," she whispered askance to Cullen.

"Are you mad, Champion?" he hissed back. Two of the qunari stepped forward with ropes in their hands, ready to bind the swords. Harley took an instinctive step back, and Ashaad very deliberately laid a hand on his sword hilt.

"Do you seriously want to fight a cave of angry qunari?" she retorted. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Harley, Maker bless her, recovered her senses first. She unbelted her sword and handed it to the qunari. Cullen relented after Natale gave him a prod. He had some sense in his head, at least-for a templar. The qunari bound the weapons with alarming efficiency, then handed them back.

"Follow me, _basalit-an_," said Ashaad. "I will take you to the Taarbas. He can tell you of our purpose."

Aveline would call her crazy, Fenris would say she was a fool, and Varric would just grin and make up some wild story to justify it. But the truth was that in that cave, surrounded by at least two dozen heavily armed qunari who could attack her at a moment's notice, she felt safer than she had in the last year as Champion. She couldn't say the same for her companions, who were practically stepping on her heels.

Taarbas turned out to be a tall, bare-chested qunari sitting on a makeshift chair at the far end of the cave, flanked by more qunari soldiers. He got to his feet and nodded to her, a qunari acknowledgment of her presence.

"You are Hawke," he said bluntly. "_Basalit-an_. Tell me, have you come across the blades of the qunari slain here a year ago?"

"Their blades?" asked Natale, trying to conceal her surprise. "What for?"

"To fulfill a demand of the Qun."

"What about their bodies?" asked Harley. "Surely you want to give them a proper burial?"

Taarbas shook his head. "Their husks are of no consequence," he said. "The swords will suffice."

Cullen made a strange flinching motion. She and Taarbas both trained their gazes on him, but before the qunari could say anything, Natale said, "Could you give us a moment?" She grabbed Cullen's arm and hauled him off to the cave room's entrance, qunari eyes following them at every turn.

"What's going on?" she whispered. They weren't out of earshot of all of the qunari, but it was the best she could do without giving offense. When Cullen looked down at his feet and didn't answer, she gave his shoulder a little shake.

"Fine, Champion," he said, roughly brushing her off with a glare. "The bodies of the qunari were burned, all of them that we could find. Their weapons...they're in the Gallows. Knight-Commander Meredith ordered them brought there."

Natale narrowed her eyes. "For what purpose?"

"She's had them hung up in the templar hall," said Cullen, his eyes darting about in every direction at the gathered qunari. "As a warning. And a reminder."

Aghast, she stared at him with her jaw hanging open. Surely Meredith knew that any qunari would take that as a provocation rather than a warning? She shut her mouth with a snap and stormed back to where the Taarbas stood silently, awaiting her decision. Cullen followed her, worry clouding his eyes.

"I have located your blades," she said evenly.

"And?"

"They are in the custody of the templar order. I will personally ensure the blades' return. Then will you and your men leave Kirkwall?"

"We will leave when the demand of the Qun is fulfilled, yes."

"Champion, the Knight-Commander-" hissed Cullen, but her patience was at an end.

"Giving a few swords back to the qunari will avert a great deal of unnecessary trouble for Kirkwall. The Knight-Commander does still at least _claim_to protect Kirkwall, doesn't she?" She fixed Cullen with a freezing glare, though to his credit, he didn't shrink from her. Instead, he simply set his jaw and nodded stiffly.

"Then it's settled. I will arrange for the return of the swords at the earliest opportunity."

The qunari seemed content to let them leave the cave, even going so far as to unbind their weapons. Natale dropped Harley off at the guard checkpoint with her fellows. "Let the captain know what transpired, but do not ask her to handle the situation," she said. "I'll deal with the Knight-Commander if Knight-Captain Cullen cannot make her see reason."

Natale and Cullen walked back to Kirkwall along the coastal road in silence, the templar occasionally glancing at her askance. Finally, he said cautiously, "You have become less a friend to the Order since your ascent as Champion. It is unfortunate."

A small part of her still felt sympathy for him. He was a decent sort, caught between Meredith's fanaticism and the mages' rapidly growing unrest. But it didn't change the facts. "I am an apostate, Knight-Captain. I was never a friend to the Order."

"Perhaps if you had been raised in the Circle, you might understand our position."

"Yes, perhaps," she said dryly. "And perhaps I would've been locked up with all the other mages when the Arishok attacked. And perhaps the people of Kirkwall would be _viddathari_...or dead."

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of gravel under their feet and the pounding of the waves, growing slowly softer as they departed the coast. Then Cullen said, "Whatever you may think of her policies, the Knight-Commander is only doing what she believes necessary to protect Kirkwall."

"Hmm. Even Anders would agree with you there." She paused, then added lightly, "Oh, and please keep your men away from his clinic in Darktown. It scares away the refugees. And the cats."

Cullen froze in his tracks, staring at her as though she'd gone mad. "I'm sorry? Cats?"

"He leaves out milk for them." She continued walking and only stopped when she was a good ten paces ahead of Cullen. "Knight-Captain?"

"I'm sorry," he said, catching up to her. "I just-it's hard to imagine an apostate like that healing the sick and...feeding cats."

It was long past time to drop the facade of courtesy. "Let's not dance around this," she said coldly. "We both know that your Order will not lay a hand on my companions. You're wasting your men in Darktown, and over what? Appearances?"

"Knight-Commander Meredith is trying to keep order in the city. We cannot appear weak, Champion!"

"Maker forbid. Though tyrannical seems acceptable."

For a moment, she thought she'd crossed the line. Then to her surprise, a smile spread across Cullen's face. "What is it," he said with a hint of nostalgia, "about Amell women and sharp tongues?" He caught the look of astonishment on her face, and his wistful smile widened. "I knew an Amell once. Soria."

"You knew my cousin? The Hero of Ferelden and slayer of Archdemons?" said Natale incredulously.

"Yes. She was...a special girl. Never met anyone else like her." His eyes drifted to the south, toward Ferelden, before he shook himself with a chuckle. "She never held back from speaking her mind either. It must run in the family."

Natale laughed with him, and for one brief fraction of a second, they weren't templar and apostate. They were just two people enjoying a walk back to the city they both called home. But it soon passed, and all the burdens they'd each taken on came rushing back.

She walked back with Cullen to the Gallows, though it made her sick to see the fortress these days. Each time, there were more templars...and more Tranquil mages. Pinched, frightened faces looked back at her, a tiny spark of hope and envy still lingering in the mages' eyes. She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.

_I'm sorry,_ she apologized silently. _Maker help me, I wish I could do more._

Cullen paused at the entrance to the templar wing of the Gallows. "I'll speak to the Knight-Commander and send a note along with her response," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to talk to her yourself?"

"Meredith and I don't so much talk as glower at one another," said Natale mildly. "Trust me, Knight-Captain. It's better this way."

The armor merchant's apprentice stood by his master's wares at the entrance to the fortress. It was getting toward mid-afternoon now; there was no time like the present. She made her way across the Gallows courtyard to the young man. His eyes lit up at the sight of her, but he soon regained his composure.

"Champion," he said with a polite nod. "Some birthday shopping for yourself?" There was a bit too much hope in his voice, too much eagerness. But she couldn't really blame him.

She gave him a small smile. "I think I've earned a little bit of indulgence." She could feel him getting anxious, tapping his feet with barely concealed impatience while she perused his wares. But thankfully, none of the templars took notice.

"How much for these gauntlets?" she asked, lifting a pair of fine silverite gloves.

"Six sovereign for you, Champion."

Natale nodded and made a great show of inspecting the gloves and fishing around in her robes for her coinpurse. When the templar guards stood at opposite ends of the entrance on their patrol, she slipped a note under the gauntlets. She saw the boy flinch, fear and hope warring in his eyes, and gave him a stern warning glance. He nodded, turning a bit pale.

"I'll come back for them later," she said in a low voice. "Maker be with us all."

With any luck, he wasn't going to do anything stupid. She could only hope he didn't. But with his sister's life on the line, she could hardly blame the lad. She'd secured his help passing notes along to the mages in exchange for his sister's freedom. And now, the day of her escape, along with six other apostates, was drawing close.

Down to the Docks to check in with the Antivan captain responsible for getting the mages to safety. Into Darktown, working out how much the lyrium bribes to keep the templars out of the shipyard would cost from Athenril. It was a familiar routine by now, if not exactly a comfortable one, and she was acutely aware of the lingering pain in her shoulder, the weariness in her bones. Getting the crap kicked out of her by a great flaming lizard didn't do much for her productivity.

She didn't make it back to the estate until early evening. She turned the corner to the back door to find Anders sitting on the back steps, reading one of her father's old spellbooks. He smiled and got to his feet.

"Sorry," he said. "But I'm afraid Varric's ordered me to waylay you here."

"You can try," she said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I won't be long," said Anders. He put down his book and came to her, holding her close. She nuzzled his unshaven cheek affectionately before he pulled back, worry creeping into his voice. "Are you all right? The templars didn't give you trouble?"

"No. Just some qunari who came back to retrieve their fellows' weapons," she said reassuringly. "Knight-Captain Cullen says he'll talk to the Knight-Commander about getting them back."

Anders' grip on her arms tightened instinctively. "You shouldn't trust him," he said. "He's a templar."

"Relax, love," she said, stroking the back of his neck. "He's too daft to be crafty about stabbing me in the back." That got an unwilling grin from Anders. He turned his attention to her shoulder, ignoring her protests when he undid the buckles to get a better look at her bare skin.

"You're healing up pretty well," he said, his gentle brown eyes intent as he lifted an edge of her bandage dressing and expertly examined the fading marks. "There shouldn't be any scarring, but I'll have another go at your shoulder tonight."

"Or you could undress me in the street," she retorted, poking him in the side. "That works too."

Anders' eyes positively smoldered. He roughly pulled her closer, his face barely an inch from hers. "Sweetheart," he growled, "don't think I'm not tempted." The smirk had barely touched her eyes when his lips met hers in a bruising kiss. He pulled her hips against his. She nipped at his lower lip, her hands running up his back underneath the outer layer of his coat. She could feel his warmth, his lean strength, his whole body tense with need.

"Maker's breath, Hawke. In the street? What will your neighbors think?"

Natale sighed and broke apart from Anders. Trust Varric to have perfect timing. She gave the dwarf a shameless grin. "Considering the number of times they haven't had the courtesy to close their curtains, I'd say I'm being a good girl."

"That'll be the day, Hawke. Anyway, get your ass in here. Wouldn't want your birthday dinner going cold, would we? Not after how badly Fenris failed at simple things like taking rolls out of the oven. That elf's good for brooding and drinking, and that's it."

"Don't forget about punching through people's chests," added Natale. She took Anders' hand and followed Varric inside, giggling a little when her fellow apostate covered her eyes with his hand. Today was a good day. She could feel it. She relaxed for the first time that day, letting Varric's firm footsteps and Anders' gentle touch guide her from the back door of her own home toward her bedroom. Varric gave her a little nudge inside, and she heard the door close behind her.

"Stop glaring at me, Blondie. You can undress her later," she heard Varric say. Snickering a little to herself as she imagined Anders' pout, she shed her thicker robes for a lovely golden gown that Orana had laid out for her, struggling only briefly with the huge sleeves. As soon as she opened the door again, Anders' hands came back over her eyes, his breath lingering just a little too long on the back of her exposed neck as he steered her into the dining room. She could hear Merrill's snickering to the right, and practically feel Fenris rolling his eyes at her. And that delicious, slightly tart smell in the air. Could it be-

"Surprise!"

The first thing she noticed when Anders uncovered her eyes was the uncanny sight of Aveline in an apron. The second thing was the plate of freshly baked cherry turnovers sitting at the head of the table. Bodahn, Sandal, Orana, Varric, Fenris, Merrill, Aveline, and Sebastian all beamed back at her. Natale just stood and stared, momentarily overwhelmed with affection for them all.

"How did you-" she started to ask.

"Leandra used to talk about you as a little girl," said Aveline gently. Natale clenched her jaw, expecting the old wound to flare up again, but it didn't. It couldn't. Not with Fenris nursing a pair of slightly singed fingers, Merrill covered in a fine dusting of flour from head to toe, and Aveline looking back at her anxiously. She laughed, a rare carefree laugh, and let them frogmarch her to a seat at the head of the table. Orana brought out a few more plates of mouthwatering pastries, and Natale shot a knowing glance at Varric.

"What?" he asked, his mouth already halfway full with cinnamon bun. "It's your birthday. Your dinner's supposed to be delicious, sweet, and horrible for your health. I even had Bodahn uncork some of that fancy dessert wine." She just shook her head at him. Varric always knew what he wanted-and inexplicably, what she needed to unwind. She reached for one of the cherry turnovers and took a bite. Warm, sweet, with just enough tart to make her mouth water. It brought back a rush of things she thought were nothing more than memories. Family. Childhood. She caught Aveline's eye, and the smile on her face was all her friend needed.

For a single, shining hour, everything else faded away. There was just her and her friends-her new family-in a dining room filled with laughter, mingled with the sweet smell of wine and freshly baked goods. Natale worked her way through turnover after turnover, with a gusto she hadn't had since she was a little girl.

"So what were you like as a little girl, Hawke?" asked Sebastian. The poor fellow was the only one not drinking. Natale considered it for a moment, sipping at her third glass of wine. She suspected this was Fenris' unmentioned contribution, from Denarius's cellars. She'd never tasted anything quite like it, and it was quickly going to her head.

"Blonde," she said after a moment's consideration. "And prone to accidentally shocking Father."

Merrill giggled. "Oh, you must've been so dear! Little Hawke, running about with her bare feet and lightning trailing behind her!"

"Somehow I have a hard time seeing you as a child," said Fenris, peering intently at her as though trying to find a child in her face.

Natale grinned back at him. "Likewise. Though I assure you, I-"

The heavy knocker at the front door suddenly sounded. Merrill yelped slightly and jumped in her seat. A wary silence followed, and everyone's eyes turned toward the main foyer of the estate. No one knocked these days, not unless it was something important. None of her friends bothered; they just had Bodahn or Orana let them in. The light-hearted atmosphere evaporated instantly. Varric put down his glass, eyeing the door cautiously. Aveline gave her an apologetic look.

Anders started and got to his feet, but Natale waved at him to sit. "You'd think Meredith would have better things to do than spoil my birthday," she said lightly into the tense silence.

She rolled up the sleeves on her gown and excused herself from the dining table. Her staff rested against the entrance, and she reached for it instinctively before opening the door.

"First Enchanter Orsino!"

The elf smiled a little; Ser Thrask stood behind him and nodded curtly at Natale. "My apologies, Champion," said Orsino, "but I'm afraid my leash is a bit short these days, and I haven't much time. May I come in?"

Natale quickly recovered her wits and glanced around for other templars. None that she could see. She placed her staff back on its stand and waved him inside. The First Enchanter carried a huge and heavy-looking wooden case in his arms. Bodahn moved to take it from him, but Orsino shook his head as he stepped inside.

Thrask bowed slightly to Natale. "Champion. I'll be waiting outside the estate. I do not wish to cause trouble, but please make this quick." He took in her dinner gown, her cautious gaze. She bowed back and closed the door behind Orsino.

The low chatter of conversation died the instant Orsino followed Natale into the dining room. Watchful eyes followed him as he made his way toward Natale's seat at the head of the table. She saw Sebastian's knuckles tighten on his glass, Aveline put down her fork and knife. Anders' eyes burned, tracking Orsino's every move. He placed the case on her chair.

"I seem to be crashing a party," he said with a bit of a self-deprecating smile to Natale.

"Nonsense, First Enchanter," she said graciously. "You are always welcome here."

Orsino looked down at the table, at the combination of wary, curious, and openly hostile gazes.

"Are you really going to bother Hawke on her birthday?" said Merrill, breaking the silence. "I'm sure whatever horrible thing is happening can wait for a few hours."

Orsino chuckled and shook his head. "Happily, I am not always a harbinger of doom, though I'm sure some would beg to disagree." His keen eyes lingered on Aveline, Fenris, and Sebastian for a fraction of a second. "But today, I am here with a gift for your Champion and mine."

Orana and Bodahn poked their heads into the room, pushing one of the wheeled tables they sometimes used when they had lots of guests. Orsino lifted the case onto the table. Magic sparked from his fingers, little blue lights undoing the heavy brass catches.

"Andraste's asscheeks," breathed Varric, standing to get a better look as Orsino lifted the lid and stepped away. "Will you look at that?"

Armor. But not just any armor. Natale's eyes glazed over the silverite chestplate and wicked gauntlets, the rich dark fur of the cloak and hood. She could feel magical power literally pulsating from the armor itself like a beacon, as strongly as any mage's staff. She wasn't the only one who felt it; a tingle ran up her spine when she gingerly touched the chestplate, the magic reacting to her presence. Saying hello. Anders got up and came to stand beside her, caution momentarily lost in wonder. Merrill started whispering excitedly to poor Sebastian, who simply looked non-plussed.

"Crafted by the Circle's best from the blood and scales of the High Dragon slain not a week ago," said Orsino quietly, watching Natale's face. "A fitting birthday gift, I think, from Kirkwall's Circle of Magi to its Champion."

A pile of unsaid things lingered between them. She seized the elf's hands in hers. "Thank you, First Enchanter."

He nodded gravely. "You're welcome, Champion," he said. "And now, I should take my leave before I outlast my welcome."

_No,_ his eyes said with just the hint of a smile as he turned to go. _Thank you. Thank you for standing with the mages when no one else can or will. We will not forget it. And if the Maker smiles on us, we will one day repay that debt._

* * *

><p>She waited until that night, when the moon was high in the sky, the remnants of her birthday dinner long gone save for a few leftover pastries Orana had hidden away in the pantry. Anders slept peacefully beside her; she gently pulled herself from his embrace and pulled on her dressing gown, her bare feet making no sound on the cool stone floor.<p>

Orsino's gift leaned against her writing desk. She very slowly pressed the latches, marveling at the First Enchanter's spellwork. Just a little bit of enchantment in the locks; only a mage could open or close this case without brute force. Moonlight glittered dimly off the chestplate, the dark fur hood. For several minutes, she just ran her hands over every inch, every buckle and stitch, feeling the latent magic thrumming with potential under her palms. She lifted one of the wickedly sharp gauntlets; it was heavier than she expected.

Natale rarely wore heavier armor of this sort, but somehow, it felt right. She shed the dressing gown and laid it over the back of her chair. First the undershirt and pants, then the silverite greaves and boots. She moved her legs experimentally, pleased to find that the armor didn't hamper her unduly. Part of her wondered whether all the spiky bits and chain were necessary. But she couldn't help but revel in the feel of wearing something literally infused with magic. The chestpiece came next, followed by the strangely asymmetrical shoulders. She struggled with them briefly before working out how she was supposed to buckle everything in place.

Finally, the gauntlets-clawed metal on the back, open at the palms. She wondered if Orsino knew of her blood magic; she had done her best to keep it a secret from most people. The last chain snapped into place, and she made her way to the window, throwing the black hood over her pale hair. Her boots echoed across the floor, and for all its power, she felt the armor's weight on her shoulders and chest.

The figure that looked back at her in the half-reflection sent shivers down her spine. She saw not a scion of the Amells, or even a mage, but a hardened and relentless woman, born for war and death. Hesitantly, Natale reached out toward the woman in the glass. The ends of their gauntlets touched.

Her ghostly reflection smiled; Natale closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the power bubble up in her fingertips. Lightning arced across the glass where their hands met, winding its chaotic way up to the walls of the estate. She could feel the dragon's captured might coursing through her, almost taste the magical potential in the air. She let the spell fizzle and opened her eyes when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Anders watched her with a mixture of awe and sadness on his face. He said nothing, just came to stand at her side. He took her hand, feeling for the softness of her skin through the cold, hard gauntlets.

"It's so heavy," she whispered. He pushed back her hood, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.

"I know," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "It always is."


	3. 9:36 Dragon

A/N: Part 3 of 4. I adjusted the Hybris bonus boss quest for this chapter, since again, having a pride demon lurking near the old Amell cellars had great potential for trouble. Or in this case, arguably crossing the moral event horizon for Natale. But I'll leave that for you the reader to decide :)

* * *

><p><strong>Atlas<strong>

_By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

_9:36 Dragon_

It was raining outside-no, pouring. One of the summer storms that sometimes hit Kirkwall and practically drowned the city for days on end. It was only late afternoon or so, but Orana had lit the torches inside the Hawke estate.

"Don't go out there, Mistress," she pleaded, watching Natale Hawke pull on her armor. "It's going to be terrible down in Darktown."

"You know I don't have a choice, dear girl," said Natale sternly. "The templars don't stop for rain or shine, and neither can I."

Orana said nothing, but Natale could feel the maid's worried eyes following her every movement. Part of her wished she'd never gotten Orana involved in her mess in the first place. The rest of her knew she'd had no other choice as Meredith's noose tightened. The Knight-Commander was employing every tool in her arsenal; she could afford to do no less. Orana was the perfect eyes and ears, invisible in plain sight.

"What should I tell Varric if he shows up and you're still not home?" asked Orana. Natale picked up her staff and thought for a moment.

"If I'm not home by that late, something's probably gone wrong," she said calmly. "In that case, tell him to find the others and get their asses down to Darktown," she said. She hesitated, then went over to the writing desk, sketching a loose map of the area around Anders' clinic and marking the concealed entrance. "They'll know what to do."

She pressed the map into Orana's hands, fighting down the guilt at involving an innocent girl in her sedition. But the trap was set, the plan already in motion. She had no back-up plan this time, a risk she had to take. If she could pull this off, she could buy a considerable amount of time for Kirkwall's apostates.

And if she couldn't, she was dead or worse. Not so different from most days when she thought about it.

She left the estate through the back door, trusting the pouring rain to hide her from curious eyes. More than an inch of cold water splashed around her boots; she whispered a spell, temporarily superheating a shell of air around herself to keep her eyes clear of the deluge.

The water running through the streets grew more and more filthy as she descended through the city, collecting dirt and refuse as it went. By the time she reached Darktown, she found herself not so much walking as stepping between dry patches amid a river of overflowing effluent from the sewers.

And as she headed to what very well might be the deaths of dozens of people, including herself, she could only wonder whether Anders had decided to go to his clinic after all today. Maker, she hoped not; the damned place flooded every time it poured like this. But she didn't have time to check. Every second counted now. Natale made her way to the inconspicuous trapdoor entrance from the sewers to the lair deep below Kirkwall and stretched out her senses.

It was still there. She could feel it lurking beneath her feet, all the stronger after she'd broken the first three bonds on its prison. It sensed freedom a hundred meters above, tasted the possibility of possessing her. But there was nothing it could do to her. Not yet.

_Hybris._

Just the thought of unleashing a pride demon of such strength made her tremble. If the templars failed, she wasn't sure she could defeat it. Wasn't sure if she could deal with the possibility of unleashing an monstrosity like that on Darktown.

Was it already getting to her? Flemeth's words to Merrill echoed in her mind. No path is more perilous than when your eyes are shut. Was she doing the same thing she'd warned Merrill against for years? Nothing was as insidious as a pride demon, and she knew the same confidence in her abilities that made her strong could be turned against her in the blink of an eye.

But it was too late to turn back now. Blood magic had bound the demon, and blood magic could set it free. She lifted the trapdoor and pulled out her dagger. Foul water poured down into the lair, mingling with drops of her blood as she concentrated.

It was so simple. A little snap, like someone had stepped on a twig, and it was done. She replaced the trapdoor and pressed her bloody hand against her skin-fresh cuts and bruises appeared along her arms and face. A little fire to singe her hair and cloak, some mud splattered on her armor, and she was ready.

She limped toward the lower levels of Darktown, where the templars patrolled once-hidden exits from the city. They'd ferreted out almost every escape route the underground resistance once used, and patrolled too vigilantly for the few others to be used safely. What they needed was a distraction.

And what better distraction than an ancient horror lurking beneath the templars' feet?

The templars heard her splashing through Darktown long before she stumbled down the stairs, clutching at her side in feigned pain. A few of them had their swords and shields ready for an attack, but recoiled in horror at the sight of the blood streaming down her face.

"Champion!" She recognized the voice of Hugh, one of the templar recruits she'd first met years ago. Natale closed her eyes and slowly crumbled to her knees; strong hands caught her, held her upright. She heard shouting, a cacophany of the rushing water, a rumble of distant thunder. One of the templars started trying to remove her armor and treat her wounds, but she feebly slapped his hands away.

"You...need to get out of here," she mumbled. "Came...to warn you."

She blinked blearily up into Hugh's pale face. "Maker's mercy, Champion," he breathed. "What happened?" Natale's eyes went suddenly wild; she sat up in a jolt and clutched at the templar's arm with both gauntleted hands, blood from her face dripping onto his wet armor.

"A pride demon," she hissed unevenly. "Here in Darktown. By the old Amell estate cellars." She used his arm to haul herself upright, struggling weakly against the templars trying to calm her. "Tried to-fight it myself...too powerful."

By now, all of the templars were clustered around her, riveted as she forced the words out through bloody lips. "All the recent bloodshed-must have freed it. You have to evacuate the district! You must leave!"

Thank the Maker for Varric, teaching her to be a better liar. She let herself drop in a half-swoon and felt the templars gently prop her up against the staircase. Marcel, the patrol captain and templar responsible for the increased presence in Darktown, was the first to recover his composure.

"All right," she heard him say in clipped tones. "We've enough lyrium and sixteen men. We can deal with this."

"Captain...this demon nearly killed the Champion herself," said Hugh, his voice shaking slightly.

"Then go back to the Gallows and inform the Knight-Commander if you're too cowardly to do your duty," replied Marcel. He knelt next to Natale, and she opened her eyes slowly, looking back into his grim face. "You should have come to us first, Champion. This is templar's work."

She swallowed her satisfied smile and leaned forward, slumping against his armor and leaving bloody streaks down the chestplate. "No time," she whispered again. "Too dangerous. You have to leave!" As she spoke, she pushed ever so gently at his pride.

Marcel nudged her toward Hugh and got to his feet, setting his chin and drawing his blade. "Stay here, Champion," he said. "Hugh can attend to your wounds before he goes."

She forced herself to wait for fifteen minutes while Hugh fussed over her-plenty of time for the templars to find the trapdoor she'd mentioned. She opened her eyes and smiled up at the young recruit. "I'll be fine now," she said, sitting up without his aid to prove it. "Go tell the templars what happened. If you hurry, you'll save more lives than just theirs."

"I can't just leave you here, Champion," the young templar protested.

"Then stop by the Hanged Man on your way up," she said urgently. "Tell Varric Tethras I'm here; he'll send people to help me." Hugh nodded and took off like a shot. She counted down another five minutes, then sprang to her feet. The board was set now, the pieces moving.

It was a disgusting prospect, but she needed something to wash off the blood, and the best thing available was the rainwater rushing through Darktown. Meticulously, she removed every drop of blood from her armor and skin; blue flame crawled over her body, burning away the last traces. She cursed when she singed her fingers-an amateur mistake.

The templars had left the trapdoor open behind them. Natale frowned; was the monster she'd unleashed strong enough to overcome the templars' training at this early stage? She followed the slippery, muddy steps down below Darktown, the lyrium blue glow of her staff lighting her way.

She'd made it about halfway down the stairs before she heard the screaming. The narrow hallways echoed with the nightmarish howls and pleas for mercy, until she could have sworn that a thousand templars were trapped in there with her. She covered her ears and leaned against the wall, taking deep, steadying breaths. The urge to help and the sudden terror at what she might find within that chamber warred inside her-and she had to resist both.

Even worse than the screaming was how long it took to fade. But slowly, gradually, the sound of rain began to drown it out. Natale pushed herself to her feet, her limbs shaking.

She could feel Hybris lurking at the bottom of the steps, inside the body of one of the templars. The poor man was still barely alive, Hybris using his last desperate desire for life as an anchor. The demon was ancient, far more so than Xebenkeck. She would not last a moment against it in a fair fight.

But pride could be tempted.

Pride could be tricked.

And what better bait than an unending wave of templars to feed its vengeance?

* * *

><p>"So why are you sticking your neck out?" asked Athenril. The elf seemed completely at ease in the deluge outside the Hanged Man's warm walls, much to Varric's amusement. "Hawke's paying me an arm and a leg for my help, and that's at a discount for old times' sake."<p>

"She promised to help me take over the Hanged Man."

"Really?"

"I wish," grumbled Varric. The things he did for Hawke these days...he'd have to talk to her after this was all over. He refused to entertain the nagging thoughts of what he'd do if this _didn't_ work out the way she'd planned. Like all of Hawke's recent plans, the backup plan involved his painful death at best.

But she was Hawke. She wouldn't accept "wait around in safety and warmth" as a better use of her day. He couldn't decide if he admired or hated that about her. Probably a little bit of both.

The elf and dwarf made their way to an inconspicuous warehouse in Lowtown, near Gamlen's hovel. Hard to believe that the Champion of Kirkwall started out in such a place...to anyone but Varric. He produced a key from a chain around his neck and unlocked the door, completely unfazed by the terrified faces of a dozen apostate mages staring back at him.

"Time to march," said Athenril briskly. She inspected the long-disused trapdoor by the hearth suspiciously. "You lot honestly got a qunari through this tiny door?" she asked Varric.

"Maker's truth," said Varric with a grin. "With one of those huge collars and everything." He kicked the trapdoor and gestured for the apostates to follow him and Athenril. He wrinkled his nose and hoisted up Bianca higher as a foot of muddy, filthy water washed over his feet. "Hawke owes me new boots." At least the rain hadn't completely flooded these tunnels, though a slight current tugged at him as the water drained downhill out of the city.

They were hardly quiet or subtle-over a dozen people splashing down the partially collapsed tunnels into their sewer escape route to the coast. The gentle ripple of water grew to a hiss and a rush the deeper they went; Darktown would be partially flooded in hours if this storm kept up.

Then a bloodcurdling shriek echoed down to them from the levels above; it rang not only in his ears, but in his very body. The air in his lungs seemed to turn to freeze. Varric froze in his tracks; two of the apostates they were escorting fell to their knees, gasping for air and shaking with terrible, contorted spasms.

Bianca was halfway out of her holster before he remembered Hawke's words.

_Do not tarry, do not stop. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see._

"Andraste's flaming ass," he growled under his breath, hauling one of the apostates with difficulty to his feet. The kid was maybe a few years younger than Carver would be, and ashen-white. He clutched at his head, struggling against whatever it was that had stopped them all in their tracks and turned Varric's bones to ice.

Athenril was less gentle, physically herding some of the more frightened-looking mages. For a skinny elf, the woman could push hard. She had her daggers out, her eyes constantly darting behind them like a cornered animal.

"What the hell is going on up there?" she hissed to Varric as they half-pushed, half-guided the now-terrified group of runaway mages through another narrow sewer mouth.

"I don't know," he lied through his teeth. "And we can either keep moving, or find out the hard way."

Athenril pursed her lips. "I don't like this, dwarf." The current picked up now as the water grew deeper; it was now almost waist-high on Varric, slowing their progress significantly.

"Yeah, and I'm having the time of my life here. Just think of all that gold Hawke's paying you."

"No amount of gold's worth this," muttered Athenril under her breath. But she continued to pick up the rear of the stragglers; she pushed, carried, calmed, swore at as needed to keep them moving as another shriek, more distant but just as chilling, reached their ears.

It was grueling work as the water grew deeper, and the chill began to set in. That ringing shriek would not go away; though it grew fainter, each time it came, the entire group of mages either froze with terror or started to panic. Part of Varric wanted to stop, wanted to lie down and let the deepening current carry them to the sea.

The rest of him told that part where to stuff it, and kept trudging on. It was almost pitch black by the time the sewers spewed forth toward the coast, and Varric, Athenril, and twelve bedraggled apostates made their way along the coast. A few tapers lit the road to and from Kirkwall-no guards at the moment.

A few of the apostates collapsed to the sand in relief and exhaustion. "Come on, we haven't time for this," snapped Athenril.

"Give them a moment, for pity's sake. They're not Hawke," said Varric, taking a breather himself.

"Hawke gave us a very specific window of time," said Athenril, tapping her foot impatiently. "And no amount of buddy-buddy with the Captain of the guard will spare this many apostates. Or our skins."

Varric chuckled and started gently pushing some of the mages to their feet. "I can see why you liked Hawke," he said.

"What's going to happen to us now?" asked one of the apostates-the boy who he'd dragged out of the water when that horrible shriek first sounded.

"You're my responsibility now," answered Athenril. "My people and I will get you out of Kirkwall if you'll get a blighted move on." The kid fell silent as though she'd kicked him, and started following in her wake. Varric took up the rear this time, watching the apostates in silence.

They all looked so helpless. So resigned to letting other people decide their fates for them. Not like Anders or Hawke, who took it upon themselves to openly defy Meredith of their own volition. He couldn't help but wonder if he really was doing a favor, helping them run amok when they might not even know how to function out in the world.

That would be for history to decide. And he intended to write it.

* * *

><p>First, a bath.<p>

Then on a good day, she'd crawl into bed beside Anders between soft, clean linens. They'd talk and plan a little. There would be magical drills, exercises to help him keep his focus and control. She'd call for a snack from Orana-perhaps some biscuits and hot chocolate, or a fruit plate. She'd fall asleep in his arms, to the sound of his breathing.

But today wasn't a good day. Natale stepped out of the gloriously warm and fragrant bath into the bedroom, to find Anders still awake. He sat on the floor, staring into the dying embers in the fireplace, a dozen scattered sheets of paper all around him. She frowned at the sight of the huge shadows under his eyes and pulled a blanket from the bed, tucking it around his shoulders.

"I thought I told you to get some sleep," she said, pushing the papers aside and sitting beside him.

Anders didn't respond. Just continued to gaze a thousand miles away, little motes of ash and flame reflected in his eyes. "Our cause is nearly lost," he whispered. "What does any of this matter?"

Natale opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. She was exhausted, yes. But she didn't need to take that out on Anders when he was like this, no matter how much she needed an outlet. Instead, she took a deep breath and put her arms around him.

"Orana knocked," he said, his voice still hollow and distant. "Varric's downstairs."

If she was honest with herself, she was in no mood to deal with Anders' melancholy and fatalism at the moment. She nodded and got to her feet, leaving the blanket behind and wrapping a dressing gown over her shoulders.

"I'll have Orana send up something for you," she said at the door. "Get in bed, love. Try to get some rest-you haven't really slept in two days."

"No need, Hawke." Varric's voice came floating up the stairs. "I already thought of that." Orana peeked out from behind him, carrying some of the leftover sweet bread from breakfast and a glass of warm milk.

Natale smiled and made her way down to the dwarf grinning up at her. He'd obviously taken the time for a bath too, after what she'd just put him through. He took the offered seat at her writing desk and leaned in toward her.

"It worked," she said before Varric could even open his mouth.

"How'd you know?"

"You wouldn't be here if it hadn't," she said simply.

Varric scowled. "You know I hate it when you do that."

"I'll stop once you stop narrating my life," she said, a rare spark of mischief in her eyes.

"That'll be the day," said Varric. He straightened up and caught a glimpse of the bottle of fine sipping rum Aveline had sent over a month ago. "May I?" He poured them each a glass and took a long drink before looking at her, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face.

"Hawke, never again. Do you know how many things could have gone wrong with that insane plan of yours? How many templars did it take before they brought that...thing down?"

"Twenty seven," said Natale quietly. "Every templar patrolling Darktown. And half those in Lowtown who responded once the first wave were dead." Her smile turned grim and cold. "Ten more in hospital. Meredith's going to have to do some recruiting."

"Not sure she can. Kirkwall's gotta run out of crazy somewhere." He sighed and shook his head. "You know I don't like this, you putting yourself in her line of fire."

Natale looked down into the golden rum swirling idly in her glass, then set it down with a heavy clink. "Varric, what else can I do?"

Gone was the facade of the immovable, unshakeable Champion of Kirkwall. Varric leaned forward and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"Well, you could get the hell out."

"So could you," she pointed out. "Isn't that what you've been saying you'll do for years?"

"Don't know if you've noticed, but I say a lot of things that aren't true," said Varric with a grin. He let go of her shoulder and leaned back in his chair. "You should drink that. There's a special place in hell for people who waste good alcohol." His eyes widened when she kicked the rum back in one gulp. He followed her gaze up to her bedroom door when she heard Orana slip out of the room.

He didn't need to ask. He could see it in her worried gaze, the increasing pallor of her already pale face, the premature lines around her eyes that hadn't been there a year ago. Could tell it in the enormous pile of letters piled up on her desk, in the endless sheets of guard patrols and smuggled lyrium quantities, the slowly declining list of safehouses in Kirkwall.

"You can't keep this up, Hawke," he said. "I know you don't want to hear it, but even you won't last forever like this."

"I know," she conceded. "But I have to try for as long as I can. When it comes to open war-"

"When?"

"When," she replied firmly. She gestured to the astronomical amount of information piled up on her desk. "You know it as well as I do."

He still wasn't going to admit it. But both of them knew when she was short a little coin, dropped a contact, or lost a hiding place, House Tethras's leader (whether uncle or cousin or household pet) picked up the slack. He'd seen the exact same things she had. The rising price of lyrium, the increased templar patrols, the rash of unexplained deaths due to abomination or blood magic.

The grandfather clock in the living room struck eleven, and Natale got to her feet. "Take the bottle with you," she said with a tired smile. "I owe you a lot more than that."

"Now, Hawke, don't get all sentimental on me." He looked back up toward her bedroom, where the light still burned. "You need me to get Blondie drunk or something?"

Natale shook her head. "It's ok. I can handle him," she said. Varric sighed and shrugged his shoulders. The rain had largely abated by this hour, but a low chilly drizzle still hung in the air. She closed the door behind him, running through the hours of things she still had to do before she could sleep.

She grabbed a pile of the work sitting on her desk and made her way back upstairs. Anders sat exactly where she'd left him, though he'd at least picked a bit at the bread. No one, not even Anders on his bad days, could resist Orana's baking. She settled herself next to him and helped herself to a mug of tea.

"What's all that?" he asked, gesturing to the stack.

"Just some information for Athenril," she said lightly.

"Natale, you don't need to lie to me."

She looked up at him, startled. His gaze was clear now, focused. He smiled at her and picked up some of the papers. Notes from Darktown, lists of remaining mage sympathizers with the will and the resources to help. His brow furrowed when he saw all the neat slashes through the names of people he knew from the mage underground, but he kept going.

"Let me help," he said.

They fell asleep in front of the fire like that, with the blanket thrown haphazardly over their shoulders and the dying embers casting flickers of light over their faces, a few stacks of paper still resting under Natale's arm.


	4. 9:37 Dragon

A/N: Part 4 of 4. This takes place after all of the major quests are concluded in DA2's third act, but just before the events of The Last Straw. It also takes place chronologically after A Line in the Sand, and is based around one of Fenris and Sebastian's Act 3 banters, as well as Anders' last Act 3 conversation. There are also references to "Meadowlark," by Stephen Schwartz. Thank you all for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed Atlas!

* * *

><p><strong>Atlas<strong>

_By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

_9:37 Dragon_

There would be blood. It was now only a question of whose, or how, or when.

Natale Hawke lay in bed one morning and watched the rising sun slowly filter through the curtains, grateful now for the little things in life. The smell of Orana's signature cinnamon buns wafting up the stairs. The luxury of soft cotton sheets against her bare skin. The slow, deep breathing of the man fast asleep beside her.

He was quiet for the moment, but every night for the past week, he'd been plagued with nightmares, each worse than the last. He said it was the taint in his blood, but she knew better. She was a better liar than Anders.

She looked down at his sharp profile, let her fingers idly twirl at his hair. And wondered if she should tell him what she knew.

Drakestone and sela petrae. Natale Hawke was no fool, and a gifted mage herself. No potion could hope to separate Anders from Justice, and she wasn't sure that even Anders wanted that any more. She had a piece of the knowledge that he'd tried to hide for her sake. Now she had to decide what to do with it.

The calls for her to become Viscount had stopped, replaced by silent fear. The conspiracies against Meredith either openly waged war against her, or disbanded and fled for their lives. Natale had lost track of how many templars she'd bribed in the last three years, how many terrified mages had fled for safer harbors through the cellars of her estate.

For three years, she'd held back the storm; open revolt would only favor the templars. But the war rumbled under her feet, the thing that could not be stopped.

She kept turning it over and over in her mind. The templars, the mages, the Chantry, and the people of Kirkwall caught in the middle. But no matter how she tried, she could not come up with a solution that didn't end in blood. The Divine had made up her mind to call an Exalted March. Meredith sent to Val Royeaux for the Right of Annulment weeks ago. It was all she could do these days to get one or two mages past the templars' ever-tightening noose, and even that was beginning to tax her abilities.

The nobles were paralyzed. The guard, too few to contend with the templars' fresh abuses. Her range of options grew narrower every day. Natale's eyes fell on her armor, carefully cleaned by Bodahn last night after she came back from Darktown's sewers.

She was Champion of Kirkwall. But before that, she was an apostate.

She couldn't choose to not be.

Anders stirred slightly in bed beside her. He murmured her name and tossed an arm over her shoulders. She allowed herself to lie there, her thumb stroking the back of his hand, when she heard Orana's voice from downstairs. The back door to the estate opened the floor below, and someone else walked inside. Natale slipped out of bed and dressed quickly, just before Orana made her way up the stairs and rapped softly on the door.

"Mistress?" she whispered. Natale had to smile. If she had been asleep, there was no way such a little voice could wake her.

"Yes, I'm up," she said, hastily tying her hair back as she opened the door.

"Fenris is downstairs," she said quickly. "I told him not to disturb you, but he's-" She cut off, wringing her thin hands with worry. Natale sighed and put a hand on the girl's shoulder, giving her a preoccupied but reassuring smile as she swept past Orana and down the stairs.

"Are you bullying my maid?" she asked, more sharply than she'd intended when she saw Fenris pacing in circles in front of the fireplace in the library. He rolled his eyes at her and continued to pace. He looked agitated, more agitated than she'd seen him since they killed Denarius and met Varania.

"I don't even know where to begin," he said. He briefly stopped wearing a hole into her floor and shook his head. "You're not an easy woman to befriend, Hawke. Especially not now."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She leaned against the staircase banister, watching him intently.

"I'm not sure I should be doing this...but you have to know. Maybe you can-I don't know what you would do, but it has to be better than nothing."

"Maker's breath, Fenris," said Natale with exasperation. "Spit it out already."

Fenris's eyes fell on the bottle of wine sitting on her desk across the room from the fireplace. He picked it up, uncorked it, and took a long swig. Natale felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth in spite of herself. Her fellow wine afficianado never did do anything in moderation.

"Sebastian."

Before she could respond or even really process what he'd said, he began pacing even faster and started fiddling with the bottle of wine, looking anywhere but at her, as though he was afraid he'd lose his nerve at any moment. But Fenris was never afraid of speaking his mind to her. It was part of why they always argued...and part of why he'd become such a trusted friend of hers over the years. She fought down the combination of dread and regret at his mention of Sebastian's name. She didn't want to relive their last conversation. Instead, she pulled up a chair for him and gestured for him to sit.

Fenris shook his head impatiently. "I don't need you to make me feel better, Hawke. This isn't about me. I need you to fix whatever's going on."

"Like that's any different from usual," she replied wearily. He stopped his agitated pacing and finally met her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know it hasn't been easy for you." Neither of them mentioned Anders' name. Fenris didn't have to. He could see it every day he was around them. He took a deep breath and started from the beginning.

"He dropped by this morning on the way to the Chantry, like he usually does. He looked...agitated. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he'd been thinking about Anders. And the templars."

Only a great effort of will kept a flood of urgent and angry questions at bay. Natale briefly closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She knew Fenris and Sebastian were close. She could see what it was costing him to tell her this.

"He asked me why the templars hadn't done anything about him yet, and I told him to take it up with you if he cared so much." Fenris gave a bitter laugh. "He was serious, Hawke, about turning him over to the templars if things continue to get worse with the mages." The elf rubbed his temples and started pacing again. "I don't like that abomination any more than he does. You're an apostate-I don't know why I'm even bothering to tell you."

"I do," said Natale quietly. Somewhere beyond her steadily growing fury at Sebastian, she found affection, real affection, for Fenris. "You once told me that you'd kill anyone who tries to use any of my friends against me." She smiled slightly and got to her feet. "I appreciate it. And don't worry, I'll go resolve things with Sebastian."

If anything, her words only deepened his frown. He caught her by the shoulder as she turned to head out of the library and back upstairs to her bedroom. "Hawke, don't do anything rash," he said. "I know you're a mage too, but don't let this get out of hand."

Natale gently brushed his hand away and felt the weight of all her years of life rest on her shoulders. "Fenris, I have held back the hurricane brewing in Kirkwall for as long as I can," she said with the ghost of a smile. "But now, I no longer have the strength or desire to try." And with that, she left a dumbstruck Fenris in the library and headed back up to her room. Anders still slept, and she got dressed quickly before leaving written instructions for Orana to ensure Anders had breakfast, then letting herself out the back door, a fresh weight of guilt added to the start of her day.

She tarried a little in the Hightown market; they were running low on that sweet stilten cheese Orana loved to cook with, and Sandal needed fresh reagents for his enchanting. She smiled a little at the thought of the young dwarf's ecstatic smile every time she brought him new and interesting enchanting materials. He and Bodahn would be leaving Kirkwall within the year for Orlais. It was almost impossible to imagine the estate without the occasional runaway enchantment. She left a few extra orders with Worthy; might as well give Sandal some more fun before he and his father fled to safer climes.

They weren't the only ones. Every day, she heard more and more murmured musings in the street of leaving Kirkwall. For Orlais, for Starkhaven, for Hercinia, even for recently Blight-ravaged Ferelden. Part of her wanted to go with them. But she knew she couldn't just take her friends and run.

Running meant giving up. It meant letting the templars win.

She finally stopped dallying when she had a basket full of oddly shaped packages, all neatly wrapped in brown paper. She made her way to the bronze doors of the Chantry. Her little detour had cooled some of her initial flare of fury, but she felt it rising again when she heard the bells tolling for worship. She closed her eyes and balled her hands into fists. She wasn't here to fight. Just to give Sebastian a friendly warning against doing anything stupid, then she'd be on her way. She entered quietly, just before the Chantry sisters gathered to sing the morning verses of the Chant of Light. Natale slipped into the crowd, and immediately picked out Sebastian, among the Chantry brothers aiding in the ceremony of the Chant. Natale hastily hid her face in her cloak and waited, the Chant of Light echoing off the high ceilings and walls, ringing all around her.

She took it all in. The great golden statue of Andraste above them all, catching the morning sun. The gathered citizens, rich and poor alike, listening to the Maker's words. The chorus of the sisters, the looks of peace on the faces around her, the kindly voice of the Grand Cleric interspersed with the verses of the Chant.

Aveline was right; it was beautiful.

She found herself wondering if she could bear to stay her hand...and watch it all burn.

The thought of such a responsibility falling to her was almost too much to bear, and she turned to leave. But just before she did, she caught the final lines of Elthina's sermon. "Gentle people of Kirkwall, the Chantry is of peace. Always. Sometimes, in the face of great adversity, it is bravest to wait and trust in the Maker's grace."

Natale stopped dead in her tracks, and suddenly, she saw everything that had happened in the Chantry interspersed among the completely ordinary scene of sisters offering their blessings to the faithful. The templars tightening the noose. Karl's blood on Anders' hands. Sister Petrice's gloating face. Seamus Dumar's body in his father's arms. She saw a boy standing, holding his mother's hand, in the very spot where the qunari had taken their revenge, nobles in the balcony where Karl breathed his last as a free mage.

The weight slowly lifted from her shoulders, peace taking its place as a slight smile touched her eyes. The Chantry sister walked past her; she did not recognize Natale immediately. The sister raised her hand, offering her blessing, and for the first time in her life, Natale Hawke, who had always fought for everything in a world that hated and feared her kind, accepted it.

She caught Sebastian's eye by accident as she filed out of the Chantry with all the rest. He turned pale and immediately made his way over to her just in front of the doors, pulled her aside out of the crowd. "Hawke," he said warily. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't really expect to be here," she said with a smile.

He didn't answer for a while; he didn't know what to say. It seemed like every time they talked now, it ended up being about the mages, and every time, they argued terribly. "Hawke," he began slowly, "I-"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Don't," she said. "What will come will come. And we all will do what we must."

"I'm...glad the service gave you some peace, Hawke," he said, sounding very surprised indeed at her words, though his eyes were still watchful.

"I suppose it did." Natale gestured to the basket on her arm. "I should be going, Sebastian."

_Maker be with you, _she thought as she left the Chantry for what she was sure would be the last time. _You'll need it._

The irony of the situation did not escape her as she made her way back to the estate. It was even funny, in a strange way. Who knew that Elthina, that indecisive and useless old Grand Cleric, could teach her something? The qunari were right; there really was wisdom to be found everywhere, even the most unexpected of places.

It wasn't about her. It wasn't about Anders, or even about Meredith or Orsino or Kirkwall. Selfish, really, and narrow-minded to presume such a thing.

It was about every Karl in Thedas, stripped of feeling and color and wonder simply for the crime of wanting to be free. Every Seamus slain for standing in the way of zealots. Every Bethany on the run since childhood, every Merrill protecting her clan from the predations of the templars. What was coming was years, centuries coming. She couldn't stop it now if she tried. And if nothing else, Elthina had taught her that inaction was still an action, still a choice.

And so she made her choice, and felt the last three years lift from her heart.

She practically floated through the back door of the estate, humming cheerfully to herself. "Sandal?" she called once she was inside, setting down her shopping with relief on the stairs.

He nearly made a beeline for her. He could always tell when she had something for him; perhaps it was something like the opposite of the dwarven resistance to magic, a kind of lyrium sense. "Enchantment?" he asked, looking up at her with wide, shining eyes. Natale smiled and ruffled his hair. She had always liked getting gifts for people, and probably no one appreciated the little things as much as Sandal. She pulled two packages out of the basket and carried them over to his little workstation, strewn as always with bits of stone and half-full jars of lyrium dust. The paper came off of the first to reveal a slice of pecan pie she'd picked up for him in the market. The second contained enchanting reagents.

"Oooh," said Sandal, reaching for both. Natale laughed and carefully put down the reagents, handing him the pie slice.

"Don't go getting those mixed up, ok?" she said. She left Sandal happily munching on the pie and put away the rest of the shopping before she headed back upstairs. It was now well into the morning, but Anders was sometimes so exhausted he'd sleep in past noon. She tiptoed up to the bedroom in case he was still asleep.

To her surprise, she found him up and dressed with a piece of paper in hand, gesticulating to the fireplace. He started when she entered, then relaxed when she just shook her head and smiled indulgently.

"Practicing another recitation of your manifesto?" she said, reaching for the paper on instinct. To her surprise, he pulled it away, looking sheepish.

"No," he said quietly, looking down at his feet. "It was actually...something I wanted to say to you."

"Why in the name of Andraste's most baggy Y fronts would you need to rehearse anything to me?" she said, laughing as she sat down on the bed and kicked off her boots. He didn't return the smile. Instead, he sat down beside her and touched her cheek lightly, tentatively, as though he was afraid he would break her. He traced her high, narrow cheekbones, the curve of her lips as her smile faded slightly.

"I wanted to tell you now," he said softly. "I love you. Just remember-whatever happens, I wanted you to know that."

"And that took rehearsing in front of the lute by the fireplace because...?" Anders closed his eyes and she felt his hand tremble against her cheek.

"Maker's breath, Natale. Don't make this harder, please." He opened his eyes, and she saw that this time, they glistened with unshed tears. She wrapped her arms around him and felt him shaking, his arms almost painfully tight around her shoulders.

"I love you," he whispered. "I wish that meant I would never hurt you." He loosened his arms, large brown eyes searching her face. "You are the most important thing in my life. But some things are more important than my life. Than either of us. I'm sorry."

She took his hands in hers and squeezed, her eyes suddenly keen and fierce. "This is war," she said. "I never had any illusions about it being easy."

This time, a real smile lit up his face. "I knew you would understand. I remember the first time I met you," he said fondly, his fingers idly playing with her hair. "I didn't know what to make of you at first. But your pride, your refusal to bend or yield...it drew me in like a beacon. I love that about you."

"Keep talking," said Natale, placing a kiss on his neck. "I know you can do better than that."

That got a chuckle out of Anders, but he quickly sobered up again. Both hands came up to cup her face, and he leaned forward to kiss her. Such a gentle kiss, and so chaste. Nothing but the soft touch of his lips on hers, his warm embrace enveloping her. He pulled back a few inches, his hands still resting on her cheeks.

"You are the one bright light in my life," he said, and his voice caught mid-sentence. He stopped, swallowed hard.

"Never blame yourself for what will happen."

The look on his face and the tears in his voice tested her resolve more than any sermon, any plea. She wanted to tell him what she knew. Wanted to beg him to let her help. But she couldn't. She knew Anders too well.

If she said anything, did anything to indicate what she knew, he'd panic and abort his plan to save her from being implicated. She couldn't let him do that, couldn't allow him to place the love of one person above the chance to change a world. So she kept silent and held him close, rubbing his back to soothe him, feeling suppressed sobs shaking his shoulders. It wasn't a lie, not really, but now she knew how he'd felt when he lied to her about the potion and Justice.

"When Bethany and I were little girls, we had a favorite story," she murmured as she stroked his hair. She didn't even know why she was telling Anders any of this, but he quieted somewhat while she recounted the tale of the blind meadowlark, the old king, and the sun god who stole her heart.

"What happened to her?" asked Anders, looking up at her. "The meadowlark."

Natale sighed. "She died, Anders."

He made a noise halfway between a sob and a chuckle. "Not the kind of story I would've told to children."

"The best stories aren't always the happy ones. Doesn't mean they don't mean something; you've been friends with Varric long enough to know that." She laid down on the bed, a wave of exhaustion suddenly overtaking her. Anders nudged her to get her to scoot over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, running his hands up and down her back. She curled up against him like a contented cat, letting her mind momentarily let go of its burdens and troubles.

She must've drifted off to sleep, because when she opened her eyes again, she was lying under the sheets with one arm around Anders, who was sitting up reading Varric's latest installment of his guard serial. He looked much improved for the nap, a lot calmer. He smiled down at her and tousled her hair.

"Aveline came by an hour ago," he said. "I told Orana to let you sleep. You looked like you needed it, love." His eyes lingered on her face.

"Thanks," she said as she stretched and sat up. She glanced at the window-she'd slept through the better part of the afternoon. "Though I'd better go see what she wants. Did she say?"

"Do you really think the captain of the guard would tell me?"

Natale sighed and rubbed at her temples. The growing tensions between the people closest to her had been a constant headache over the past three years. And though she never said as much to Anders, much of the fault for it was his. The list of people he didn't antagonize constantly grew shorter every day. "Never mind," she said shortly. "I'll handle it." She slid out of bed and quickly dressed herself, pulling on her heavy armored robes as an added precaution. Too many people wanted her dead these days for her not to take precautions.

Something in her voice must have tipped Anders off, because he got out of bed and followed her to the bedroom door. "You don't have to do everything in this blighted city," he said, looking at her with his large brown eyes. "I'm sure the guards can handle whatever's happening."

She couldn't resist a chuckle. Anders was many things, but subtle was not one of them. "Aveline wouldn't come looking for me if she thought they could," she said. "And besides, everything Meredith doesn't wreck ends up on my plate or hers anyway."

He didn't laugh. He usually didn't these days. "You really think Meredith doesn't have the guard under her thumb?"

Natale narrowed her cool grey eyes. "If Aveline wanted me in the Gallows, I would've been there before I even met you," she said. She didn't sound angry, but there was a definite note of finality in her voice. He didn't answer. Instead, he simply watched her with those worried eyes as she left the estate, pausing only to pick up her staff where it leaned in the entrance hall.

The Viscount's Keep rivaled the Gallows for her least favorite place in Kirkwall these days. There were nearly as many blighted templars here as there were in the old prison fortress, stationed at every door, sometimes supplanting the guards. She opened the door to the guard barracks, weaving in and out of the crowd of guards checking for the evening's patrol schedule. She leaned against the wall to Aveline's office, figuring she'd wait until the hubbub subsided, but the moment Aveline spotted her, she waved her into the captain's office, leaving the rest of the guard in Donnic's capable hands.

"It's about bloody time," said Aveline as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"Nice to see you too," replied Natale. Aveline gave her a strained grin, then reached for a patrol report sitting on her desk and handed it to Natale.

It didn't take long for Natale to get the gist of the problem. The presence of the words "maleficarum" and "inspiration" and "Champion" in the same sentence was cause enough. She put the report back down on Aveline's desk and rubbed her temples. "And what exactly am I supposed to do about this?"

"Don't you even care about what gets done in your name? I would if it were me!"

"And what would you do, Aveline? Go around asking every mage in the city to overlook the presence of an apostate Champion who thumbs her nose at the Knight-Commander?" said Natale with a sardonic grin.

Aveline sighed and sat back down behind her desk. "It'd be a start. It turns up more and more in my reports; these mages cause trouble, and invoke your name while they're at it," she said. She paused, then continued. "Please tell me you aren't actively encouraging this."

"No," said Natale. She could at least answer that question truthfully. "But my stance on the current situation is Kirkwall's worst-kept secret. I could pretend, just for you, if you like."

That got a laugh out of Aveline. "I know you better than that." She filed the report away in a desk drawer and shook her head. "Sorry for bothering you with this, but it...worried me." She drew a breath to say more, then quickly snapped her mouth shut.

Natale raised her eyebrows and reached for a bottle of brandy on the shelf behind Aveline, pouring each of them a glass. "If I've been a bad girl, you can tell me," she said.

"Bribing me with my own spirits? Classy." But Aveline took a sip nonetheless and leaned back in her chair, thinking.

"It's not you," she finally said, looking down into her glass. "It's more the position I find myself in. You saved Kirkwall, but I'm the one who's supposed to protect its citizens. And I can't even do that now without the templars looking over my shoulder and blood magic coming out of every dark alley." She took another large sip. "I'm starting to understand how Viscount Dumar felt."

Natale didn't answer. She couldn't. She suspected Aveline knew about some of her...shadier activities in her attempts to get as many mages as she could out of Kirkwall, but it was too dangerous to say anything, even here in Aveline's office, surrounded by her guards. Aveline drained the last of her brandy and came to stand beside Natale, looking out at the sunset over Hightown's walls.

"Aveline, I'm-" Natale started to say, but she was interrupted by a frantic knock on the guard captain's door. It flew open, and to both women's immense surprise, Varric and Isabela flew in, with none other than Tobrius, her father's old friend, in tow. Before either of them could react, Varric closed the door behind them and locked it securely. One look at the dwarf's face, and Natale felt her throat constrict.

"Champion, you have to come to the Gallows," said Tobrius urgently. "The First Enchanter got into a terrible argument with the Knight-Commander. He stormed off to bring it before the Grand Cleric, but the Knight-Commander gave chase." The older mage wrung his hands, twisting his fingers painfully. "I...I fear there will be blood."

Natale nodded to Tobrius, but turned her attention to Varric and Isabela. "Then what in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

"He came to me, figured I'd know where you were. I was busy getting my ass kicked at Wicked Grace." Varric jerked his thumb toward Isabela, who was watching everything going on with a mixture of irritation and growing alarm. Natale closed her eyes briefly, hoping Isabela would not run out on her this time.

She looked from Aveline's stony face to Tobrius, now ashen with stress and fright. Unbidden, the witch's words rose in her mind, and everything around her seemed to momentarily slow and halt.

_Do not be afraid to leap. For it is only when you fall that you learn if you can fly._

"Take me to them. Now."

She didn't hear Tobrius' relieved thanks or Aveline, Varric, and Isabela's promises to come with her if things got ugly. She barely noticed the whispers among the guards and templars both when they all stormed out of the Keep, making for the Gallows at top speed. They were practically sprinting through Lowtown when she spotted the empty streets, the barred windows as civilians scattered. Templar and mage stood on opposite sides of Lowtown's central square, heedless of Natale, for the moment.

She stopped to catch her breath, then approached Meredith and Orsino, slamming the end of her staff into the stone. The earth itself trembled beneath their feet, and the eyes of Kirkwall turned to her.

"This needs to stop," she said quietly.

And it would. One way...or another.


End file.
